


high

by xTammyVx



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Heterosexuality, M/M, Marijuana, Play Fighting, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTammyVx/pseuds/xTammyVx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be embarrassing, if it wasn’t Harry, if he wasn’t high as a fucking kite, if Harry wasn’t still incredibly and undeniably hard in his own trousers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	high

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a Ziall fic, Tight Grip, where there is smut. I haven't written smut in a while, so I thought I'd give it a quick practice before I get to the smutty scenes in TG.

Sticky smoke flows in a humming exhale, Harry watching the pale cloud fog up to the ceiling, the whites of his eyes glossed and stained pink as Niall smirks. It bubbles and snowballs into chuckling, a shared and wordless language of tossing all fucks to the wind from their hotel balcony as Harry takes the blunt and suckles on the end. The paper is damp but his lips, his mouth, is warm, hot with his own breath and the charcoal dust of smoke coating his insides.

“Ssh,” Niall giggles low in his throat, a finger clumsily brushing the centre of his grinning lips. “D’you want Louis to hear?”

Harry shakes his head, wets his lips, and smiles broadly.

“Me neither. I love him, but he’s just so loud, and after today, just winding down is so,” he sighs and massages the fingers not pinching the joint into his temples, “fuckin’ good right now.”

“Aw, is Niall feeling poorly?” Harry snorts loudly. Niall shushes him again. “Is it the same thing that Liam’s got?”

Niall shakes his head lazily, eyes slipping shut. “Nah, ‘cause he’s vomiting everywhere, inn’t he? Some food poisoning or som’in’. I’ve only got the headache.”

Squinting, Harry flops his hand onto the blonde’s forehead, taking his turn for a long drag as he pulls back. “You don’t feel too warm or anything.”

“Probably just boredom. I can’t believe we’re stuck in here when there are so many things to do, you know? Pubs to drink in, shots to take, clubs to visit, music to dance to, and I’m in here with a blunt and a beer.” He punctuates that with a good chug.

Harry rolls onto his stomach, backs of his knuckles stroking soothingly against the round of Niall’s shoulder. “I thought you’d wanted a night in,” he says with a grin, any potential hurt buried beneath alcohol sloshing around in his stomach and the inhale that turns the cherry a piping-hot red. “After the bus, and the meet-n’-greet, and the show.”

Niall groans, a little to Harry and a lot to himself. He rejects the offer of another hit. “I’m at that awkward place, like where I want to do something, but I can’t be bothered doing it. I’m wrecked, but I,” he stops when he realises that Harry’s not looking at him anymore, magnifying his attention on the chocolate in his mouth. “I like this, being here with you,” he finishes. “Harry. C’mon, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Have you tried one of these?” It’s a steak-knife sharp curb in their conversation and Niall embraces it. “Zayn bought them for us, since he knew that…” He tilts the blunt up and Niall snickers.

“He didn’t tell Louis?” He turns over too, propped on his elbows.

Harry’s curls jiggle. “No. Zayn’s good like that.”

Niall grunts something along the lines of agreeable, gesturing for another beer.

“Besides, the tour bus can’t be _that_ bad,” Harry muses. “Not with your _boredom-buster_.”

Niall cackles into the neck of his beer, the sound rumbling through the room as he tries to suck in breath between silent chuckles.

“It eases the way,” he says by way of answering, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth. “Tastes expensive, doesn’t it? Fuckin’ Zayn, man. I love him.”

“How do you do it, though?” To the questioning look he gets, Harry adds, “Rubbing one off on the bus, I mean.”

Niall’s brows scrunch together. “Harry, I love you too, but I’m not telling you _any_ of my techniques.”

“No, no, I mean, like, do you do it in your bunk, or do you wait till we’re all out of the bathroom?” He pinches his lip gently with his thumb and forefinger through his shy grin like the charmer Harry is.

Not one to question subject matter like this—not with Harry, who Louis keeps saying is such a monkey that he could get away with anything as long as he blushes the right shade and does that biting-back-a-smile thing he’s perfected—the blonde leans over for a puff, letting it burn his throat on the way out.

“Not really in the bunk, ’cause someone’s always in there for a nap, y’know? No reason that any of you lot need to hear that kind of thing going on. Paul’d have my head for emotional scarring.” He visualises the last bit and snorts. “It’s really just a matter of convenience. If you’re all snoozing then yeah, I’ll go for one in the toilet, but if everyone’s up and doing then I’ll have quick—” he whistles out the corner of his mouth and pumps his fist, “—under the sheets. I have to have tissues for that, though, coz I can’t be spunking where I have to sleep. Lube’s another thing. Remember when Zayn got caught buying some love lotion down at the corner shop?” They both giggle sneakily. “I know Paul said him or one of the others’d get it, but I don’t think that any of them really want to.”

Still smirking, Harry slips a hand under his tummy, pressing the heel of his palm against his swollen crotch for a bit of pressure on the stiffy forming there. He hears Niall cough in a confused sort of way, and looks up to see him pull the done joint from between his lips and pinch the new one, to see him peer down at Harry in disbelief.

“Are you adjusting yourself?” he asks in a pitch higher, roughly forming the words. “Are you getting off on this?”

“I’m not proper hard. ’s’not a big deal,” Harry insists.

“What the hell, you’re gettin’ hot talking about me wanking.” There’s no question in his voice but he’s smiling a little despite himself, verging on aggressive as he goes to nudge Harry over. His touch meets resistance, a glare pleading him to drop it. Niall doesn’t because he’s Niall and it’s playful as always, and he’s not even sure why he wants to see Harry with a hard-on, but he knows that he can’t stop now. He can’t back down. Niall presses him again and grins and cackles and—

Harry lunges in a messy explosion of movement, catching Niall off-guard, shoving him into the mattress. Niall’s eyes swim to the ceiling as Harry mounts him, filled with curly hair a second later as grunts as pants flood his ears. His arms flail uselessly in wrecked attempts to keep Harry from dominating the scruff the whole way through. The thing is, Harry may be a useless knob with limbs like spaghetti at anything involving balance in general when he’s sober, and then as soon as a blunt or two’s been passed around and he’s got a bit of alcohol in his system, he’s like _this_. Any times where Niall manages to cause Harry any difficulty are flukes, evaporating in seconds in a bundle of hands and grabs and darting movements that are too much for his head right now.

So Niall gropes around until he finds Harry’s crotch, tented and warm. He squeezes, perhaps a little harder than he intended, and watches the boy cease his struggling, eyelashes fluttering closed while his mouth opens, squeaking out a short moan. His head drops, dark, thick curls bouncing, hips stuttering. Niall’s grin widens, and it’s soft, softer when Harry slowly peers up at him in the dim light, and his bottom lip, bitten, is red and spit-slick. He’s already red in the face at his hormone-ridden stumble. Niall feels the air cooling to a low simmer as they weigh out their breathing to let their blood fall back into a regular thrum. Harry clears his throat.

“I think I might go and have a wank,” he blushes quietly, hiding beneath his mop of hair.

It’s when he moves, starts to reel himself in, and Niall’s not quite sure, not really certain as to what he’s doing, but he rubs his hand from the belt to between his thighs and the fight melts out of Harry. Niall’s pretty sure that he hears a whimpery noise in the back of his throat, and doesn’t say a thing.

He just keeps moving, dragging his fingers up and down at a leisurely pace, smile gentle and kind against Harry’s neck as the boy lowers himself, hips gingerly rutting forward for the pressure of Niall’s palm. His mouth hangs a little slack. Feeling the warmth ghosting over his collarbone is familiar—girls wanking him off, a girl on top, that one time when he’d popped a stiffy on their first tour because a stunning brunette had pushed him against a wall and whispered, “ _I’m going to suck your brain out through your cock._ ”—so Niall goes with it, because if worse comes to worst, he can always blame it on the weed. With that in mind, his own tongue drifts up to Harry’s ear, clasping the lobe between his lips, tugging at it, listening to the beautiful moan that crumbles from the boy.

“Why are you doing this?” It’s husky, a rough attempt at a question that hovers and chokes near the end.

Niall’s hand falls to his own groin to sooth the hot flushes making his trousers uncomfortably snug. “Why are _you_?” he tosses back quietly. The lights are too low, his voice too unsure and careful, for it to be smug, for it to be anything more than something to fall back on.

Harry finds his breath, swallows it, and collects himself. Pushing back up, he shrugs, “It… feels good.”

The way that he’s looking at Niall and he’s so young, half-drunk and half-high and vulnerable and sporting a rather unsubtle, uncomfortable-looking hard-on, makes Niall feel strange. “I’m curious,” he admits. “That alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, adjusting his stance, “yeah, that’s alright with me.”

“Right, then.” The naughty grin’s back, tongue in the pocket of his cheek. “Trousers off. Let’s see it.”

The weight on his hips is gone, followed by a dip in the mattress as Harry rolls off of him, hastily tugging back his belt strap. His thumbs hook into his jeans’ waist, wriggling, Niall moving to straddle him and awkwardly bumping their knees together. A sharp ache winds tightly in his kneecap to bloom as a lovely bruise come morning and Niall would care more if he wasn’t about to give a hand job. It’s weird, like chewing ice; Niall had always told himself that he’d either be totally hammered or the guy would look like a girl if he were to ever get off with a boy. Harry doesn’t look like a girl. He just looks like he always has, with dimples shaded lightly, hair at odds with itself on the pillow. Niall’s not even that pissed. It’s only been a couple of drinks, after all, and he can feel his cock thicken when Harry’s boxers give and he can slide them down his thighs.

It’s still Harry, still his face and his hair and his lip-bite, but it’s also not. He’s pink in the cheeks, heat sparking and spreading beneath his skin for a flush of colour to his face. His shirt hitches up when he shifts, and Niall can’t look anywhere but his cock right now, hands finding the scruff of his own singlet which he tosses to the floor.

Harry doesn’t have to beg, doesn’t have to boost Niall for him to get it and lick his hand. He starts to sloppily jerk Harry off with a gentle pace to soothe his body smooth again so that he can relax. It’s an odd angle, the shape and length not like his own. A groan like feathers winds from Harry’s throat, strangled at the end. Harry’s eyes scrunch up, mouth slack, and Niall wonders if Harry will let him fuck it if he asks.

Niall’s never sucked dick before, but he’s at that buzzed, eye-of-the-tornado part of the evening, where he doesn’t have to think twice about going down on a guy. Plus, it’ll up his chances of getting blown in return, he thinks, and who can argue with _that_ logic?

A gasp-whine crawls out of the younger boy’s throat, fingers tight in Niall’s bleached-blonde hair as he guides himself over Harry’s chin, the curve of his Adam’s apple, the swallow of his collarbone, and the jut of his hips. Harry tenses and melts against him, twisting his fist pretty painfully against Niall’s scalp.

“Harry, loosen your grip a little,” Niall whispers, gently stroking his cock.

Harry nods, and, just as Niall’s about to start sucking him off, he interjects.

“Lemme go down on you first, Niall.”

And if that thought doesn’t turn Niall on like fairy lights on Christmas, then nothing will; his dick fattens up all the way, full-blown stiffy trapped in his low-crotch trousers.

“I’m hardly going to turn down a blowie, am I?” he grins as he crawls off of Harry’s lap.

“Up against the headboard,” Harry tells him. Niall does it, pillow propped behind the small of his back as he slouches, legs open, his every muscle air. The way that Harry looks at him while he straddles his thighs is curious and a bit funny, considering that his cock’s still out. Harry takes care of one of those things by tucking himself back in.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly, sweeping a hand over his curls.

Niall snickers and giggles a little higher-pitched than usual. “Depends. Are you any good?”

Harry genuinely thinks about it for a few beats; Niall has this low thrum of anticipation in his chest, threaded together with the fog of weed and drink and the late hour of night.

“I guess so,” he finally says.

The truth is that Niall doesn’t give a rat’s arse if Harry’s actually a good snog—which, it turns out, he is—because it’ll feel good anyway. He leans in and presses their lips together, enjoying the slow, fluid feeling of a mouth on his and the tongue that darts in to kick his into action. There’s a moment where he forgets where that mouth is going to be soon, but when he remembers, he can’t help the pulse his hips give, up against Harry’s bum.

Harry wedges a hand onto Niall’s stomach, brushes where his cock’s pressed up against the two layers of fabric. He’s cupping him through his trousers and then he’s not, hand fitting between his own legs to drift down Niall’s thigh, work him up a bit more, if that’s even possible.

Sure enough, it’s heady watching Harry while he’s in the zone. Niall wants to get his chap out, push Harry’s head down and get the sucking started and get off, but he’s… pretty curious, also wants to see where Harry’ll lead himself.

When left to his own devices, Harry is actually a devious little fucker. He nudges down the slim tendon in Niall’s neck and even pinches his nipple a little—which Niall isn’t sure he likes—while he eagerly jiggles the button and fly open. Harry works his way down the bed, letting his lips drag over the pert nub of his nipple again and this time the air stutters in Niall’s throat.

“Are you cold?” he asks gently.

Niall shakes his head, no, denying the urge to palm his dick through his boxer-shorts. He shuffles up a little instead to give Harry more room but also to lessen the distance between his crotch and Harry’s mouth. Harry licks the tip of his forefinger.

It would be embarrassing, if it wasn’t Harry, if he wasn’t high as a fucking kite, if Harry wasn’t still incredibly and undeniably hard in his own trousers. It would but it’s not, even when a gasp that wasn’t expected and a lot louder than he’d intended darts through him. Harry repeats that once, twice, three times, sliding the pad over the skin as it pebbles up. He pinches again and, slick with spit, it’s nicer this time. Niall’s cock blurts precome the moment Harry gets his lips on it.

There’s no room for teasing anymore. Niall’s patience shudders and tumbles as he reaches down, wriggling the waistband past his arse, tugging his dick out over the top, working himself into a good rhythm. Harry notices, sitting back to peer down at Niall’s fingers curled around his flushed shaft.

The view is short-lived; Harry presses his mouth sloppily against the crease in Niall’s tummy and onto the wing of his hip. “Don’t come in my mouth, alright?” he says as more of an instruction that a request. At this point, Niall would agree to absolutely anything, because he’s pretty certain that he’s in love with Harry when he yanks his trousers to his ankles and finally goes down on him.

“Son of a _cunt_.”

Harry… His mouth is made for this, made for giving the most amazing head that Niall’s ever experienced. Maybe it’s a guy thing. Maybe Harry’s just learnt through observation. He doesn’t give a damn as to _how_ , only really knowing that it feels fucking fantastic when Harry moves his hand like that. Jaw going slack as Harry’s does, Niall can only sigh in pleasure, getting a decent view of Harry’s mouth opening obscenely wide to sink down on his length. Niall sees the bulge of the head in the pocket of Harry’s cheek, jutting against his flushed skin.

The clench of Harry’s throat shakes a low moan from Niall, who’s not so concerned with being quiet anymore. So what if the boys waltz in? They’re just going to get a front-row seat for an incredible blow job. They’re hardly going to walk past Niall’s knob in Harry’s mouth just to steal their recreational substances.

He giggles a little at the thought. There’s no helping it, really, what with the weed and that. Harry glances up at him and his pupils are so, so blown, pools of inky-black under long, dark lashes.

“What’re you laughing at?” he asks quietly, working Niall’s cock in sharp strokes.

“I’ll tell you afterwards,” Niall promises, guiding him back down.

The fact that the lips currently pressing around his sac belong to a lad isn’t as big of a deal as Niall expected; really, he thinks, he should’ve done this a long time ago. So many wasted opportunities where Niall could have had a joint in his lips and Harry on his dick, and he’d forgotten how fucking amazing it is to get sucked off while high.

He gets a little hazy with the increasing build-up that causes hot flashes through his whole body. Whatever will power left that’s holding back the insistent grunts and groans clawing at his lungs cracks and splinters, a flood of swears and pants scribbled on his tongue as Harry moans around his swollen, near-purple tip, gently rutting into the mattress. It’s an electrical burst, and Niall’s eyes squeeze shut, and his knees clamp on Harry’s waist, and his toes curl. If Harry keeps that up, he’s gonna— _he’s gonna_ —

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “Fucking hell, Harry, I’m gonna come.”

Instantly, Harry jerks back, large hand jerking Niall off until he’s coming with a small shout, an incredible sensation filling every cell in his body. Hot stripes unload on his chest, his belly button, a few flecks splattering over Harry’s knuckles.

Harry tightens his grip to squeeze for the last of it. His slick hand goes in long strokes until it becomes too much, overstimulation too strong, too much pain and pleasure curling into one. Niall bats him away.

It’s been a while since Niall’d gotten off like that, everything down to his calves totally exposed just for a blow job. The movements are drunk and clumsy after that; when he tries to slouch back he hears the metallic _clack_ of a belt and then Harry’s knob’s out, hard as ever in anticipation of getting sucked. Plumped lips parted, two of Harry’s fingers swipe through the spunk dribbling down the blonde’s tummy. He strokes himself slowly with it as he gets up on his knees, continuing as Niall collects himself.

“I’m not blowing you with my come on your dick,” Niall says firmly, or at least tries to, betrayed by the quaver in his voice.

Harry pouts; “I needed lube.”

Niall stares at Harry’s cock, looking even fucking bigger than it already is next to his own limp chap. He’s not seen a lot of dicks in his life (though it has to be said that the number has increased since he met the boys) but Harry’s is a real monster. He could hurt someone.

“Come on,” Harry whines, nudging his cockhead against Niall’s collarbone. “Don’t be a bad sport.”

A nervous laugh bubbles up from his chest. He owes Harry. He has to do this. His throat will be totally fucked and ruined by the end of it, and still he puts on a brave face and opens his mouth on the flushed tip.

Harry breathes out a beautiful sigh of relief, fingers curling at the nape of Niall’s neck. Daringly poking out his neat tongue, sweeping up his slit, Niall remembers times he’s given head. Up until now, it’s all been girls; girls he’s fingered a little, girls who’ve screwed their eyes shut and pressed up against his face as he held them open and cleaned them out, girls who’ve let him fuck them afterwards, girls who he’s made come.

“ _Niall_.”

He’s barely edging down from where his spit and Harry’s precome have made the head slick.

“’m sensitive,” Harry mumbles by way of explanation. “You could use your hands, too. And, um, don’t forget to, like, cover your teeth.”

So Niall moves, loose grip slipping the pink head of Harry’s cock from his foreskin. He sweeps with his tongue wide until his nose brushes his knuckles, the taste of his own come bitter and rank. The memory of every time he’d listened to someone swallow after he’d peaked flushes down his face, as well as a new respect for them.

Niall loves eating girls out, the taste when they’re just as randy as he is, and he’s desperate for a shag but he has to wait until she’s gotten off first. The mechanics of a blowjob are definitely different in practice, but not in theory; use tongue, find hotspots, and pay attention. Harry’s low groan, punched out of him with a bit of a squeeze on his dick, rumbles through his smoke-matted throat and Niall has to stop himself from releasing one of his own.

It’s no secret that Niall has the worst gag reflex in the whole band (possibly even the world). Harry giggles as his nose crinkles and eyes wind shut in an attempt to bob his head. It works. Harry’s noises are indecent at best and it’s a symphony of pants, grunts, and low hums. Niall figures out that he can use his fist to cover what his mouth doesn’t reach (genius or what?) and finds that he doesn’t quite mind the taste of precome as much as he’d thought.

His jaw hurts, though, and he’s still sleepy from coming, and Harry’s cock is so fucking heavy on his tongue. Niall jumps back when Harry’s tip grazes the roof of his mouth, pulling out further and further every time.

“Did I hit the back of your throat?” Harry asks, a single shiver passing through him.

Niall coughs. “No. The roof of my mouth is just a bit ticklish.”

Harry gets a hand on his cock, Niall automatically opening his mouth for it. A tiny frown forms on Harry’s face, brows scrunched together. He cups his hand around his balls for a few seconds, the other gaining a slow rhythm on his shaft.

“No, closed,” he finally says and _holy shit_ , his voice is low, dark and quiet as he gets a good grip on the headboard.

Harry keeps his determined expression as he presses his cockhead against Niall’s swollen lips, hot precome slick and salty. For a moment, Niall forgets that he’s mostly naked—even with his spent cock manfully trying to rise again—pushing those thoughts away to focus on the twitch in Harry’s thigh beneath his fingertips as Niall rubs his dick a bit. He’s too sensitive, maybe, but he can’t hold back when Harry gives a choked sigh and has to drop down to fist his cock.

“You close?” Niall asks gingerly. His tongue flicks out to wipe away the wetness threatening to dribble down his chin.

“Yeah.” Harry’s breaths come roughly through his teeth, tiny pants muffled on the curve of Niall’s shoulder. His other hand pounces onto Niall’s thigh as he’s just shy of coming.

Niall strokes his fingers up and down Harry’s slender back through the low groan grinding out of his throat. He kisses Harry’s cheek when splatters unload on his stomach, only cringing when Harry pulls back.

“Harry, you cunt, that’s so gross.”

“’re gross,” he mumbles weakly, flopping to the side.

Thank Christ for the tissue box on the bedside table. Lazily leaving his semi to go soft again, Niall pulls up his boxers but wrestles out of his trousers and snuggles under the duvet. The skin on his stomach is still a bit tacky.

“D’you mind?” Harry asks, gesturing to the duvet. “They probably heard me.”

Niall thinks about Harry when he was sixteen, which is easy now that he looks so young and dozy and limp. He nods, helps Harry in, and curls around him. Harry used to be the one who slept on top of people, until the daft puppy grew into a fucking Great Dane.

The hormones and joints have leveled themselves out when Harry runs his thumb over Niall’s shoulder and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

This one’s a bit weirder; Niall’s ready to nod off at any given second with the leftover tipsiness a lullaby. He’s not sure how he feels, kissing Harry now, and the younger lad seems to feel the same way.

“A bit weird, isn’t it?” he laughs quietly.

“Just a bit. Blame it on the booze, eh Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry grins, tucking them both in properly and punctuating it with a long, slow yawn. “Good night, Niall.”

“G’night,” Niall whispers back. “And, for the record, I _really_ glad that we stayed in tonight.”


End file.
